


Closing the Rifts

by inbarati



Series: The Wayward Magister [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:20:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6462841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbarati/pseuds/inbarati
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timestamps for Inclined to Do the Forbidden and other tales of Wayward Magisters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lathbora Viran

**Lathbora viran** : Roughly translated as "the path to a place of lost love," a longing for a thing one can never really know. (Timestamp for chapter 20 of Inclined to Do the Forbidden.)

* * *

 

Solas was pleased when they made camp by the river on the way back to Skyhold. He could feel a place just far enough to be out of sight of camp where the Veil was very thin. He could hear it singing under the strain of holding back the Fade. He helps with the tents, listening to the chatter. He’s still trying to see what this Inquisition will be. The Inquisitor is strange to him, a being he has never seen the like of. A Qunari unlike any other. He reminded Solas of Mythal when they were younger. Before...

 

He goes back to helping unpack supplies. The Inquisitor is building a fire. They’re talking about cooking, and Solas can feel his eyebrows go up. He wonders if either the mage Inquisitor or his warrior companion have cooked very much. He has doubts. Solas moves closer to the fire. Adaar sees him and smiles. “Hey Solas,” he puts a warm hand on Solas’s shoulder and guides him to sit by the fire that is now crackling.

 

Solas sits, smiling. “Inquisitor,” he greets Adaar, and turns to the Iron Bull as he comes from splitting logs to stack the wood nearer to the fire, “the Iron Bull.” He inclines his head in greeting.

 

Bull is clearly intent on continuing the discussion about food. “So you've had that sort of spicy dathrasi thing with the noodles and the smoky sauce?”

 

The Inquisitor nods, lifting one shoulder in that strange estimation of a shrug. “Could probably fake it with snoufleur. Dorian, do we have flour?” He raises his voice.

 

The Tevinter mage steps out from behind the carts with a crate. “We do, Amatus.” He leans in to kiss the Inquisitor, leaving the crate by his feet.

 

Bull catches the slender man around the waist and pulls him up. Dorian laughs and tilts his head back to kiss Bull’s chin. Solas frowns a little. Letting himself be approached and even grabbed from behind without resistance doesn’t speak well of the mage’s awareness. “I’m going to get a snoufleur so His Worship here can make us some dinner. Wanna come with?”

 

“I think I might go for a swim,” Dorian answers.

 

Solas steals away without anyone noticing. He seeks out the weak place he felt earlier.  He can hear the hum of the spirits on the other side.  He closes his eyes and listens.

 

The spirits are excited,  both by the thinness of the veil in this place and the presence of so many mages. Solas recognizes an old friend in the crowd and drops further into meditation to reach across and greet her.

 

"You have changed,  ma vhenan." She murmurs and drifts closer to inspect him.

 

Solas shakes his head.  "You are as aware of the impossibility of that as I am."

 

"Your interactions with the short-lived always change you, Wolf. Much as you always deny it." She's glowing softly with pleasure at his presence in spite of the seriousness of the conversation. "I hear Compassion found a way to embody without possession.  Is that true?"

 

He nods. "It is."

 

"What is he like?" Curiosity curls around him like a pampered cat.

 

"Not markedly different from any other human boy," Solas replies, knowing she'll find the truth more interesting than he does.

 

She hums with satisfaction. "Is that him now?" she purrs.

 

Solas is confused, as Cole had elected to stay in Skyhold this trip.  Then Dorian comes into view,  removing his robes and laying them over a branch before wading into the water.  Solas watches, as curious as his friend for once. What had made her mistake the Tevinter mage for a fellow spirit? He feels her leave him distantly.  Solas is something she's familiar with.  Dorian is unknown and holds many secrets.

 

He drops deeper into meditation.  "He's just a human." Solas chides her. "How did you mistake him for one of you?"

 

"I assumed only Compassion would be concerned about the welfare of the tree he hung his clothes on." She circles Dorian.  "All your companions are unusual, Wolf, but even among them, this one is strange."

 

Solas looks dubiously at the Tevinter.  "He's just a mage. Irritating and ignorant but just a human."

 

The sun has gone down, and the veil flies come out from hiding to blink lazily around Dorian's peacefully floating form as if to highlight Solas’s mistake.  Curiosity laughs."Such a foolish Wolf. Wanting to know everything, but ignoring what's laid before him. If you want to know your Inquisitor,  observe this one. His heart is glass. He hides nothing.  Compassion trusts him. Which means Compassion can see his reflection. If this one had any hardness to his heart, Compassion would avoid him."

 

Curiosity is right.  Perhaps what the Inquisitor sees in the Tevinter mage does go beyond the physical. Dorian finally seems to notice that he isn't alone and stands. He's alarmed by the veil flies. Solas watches Dorian observe them warily, but the mage makes no move to harm the bugs.

 

It occurs to Solas that Dorian might never have encountered the glowing green insects before.  "They’re veil flies," he offers,  raising his voice somewhat,  to be heard over the quiet burbling of the stream.

 

Dorian startles,  finally noticing Solas.  He tries to dislodge a veil fly from his nose,   waving his hands near his face.  Solas realizes he doesn't want to injure the bug. Curious. Most humans would simply swat it. "Do you not have them in Tevinter?"

 

Dorian, shakes his head, watching the insects with more wonder than wariness now that he knows what they are. “No,” he replies, his voice gone dreamy, his concentration on the veil flies. “Tevinter is more rocks and sand than trees and rivers. The rivers there tend to be fast and deep. They cut away the rock into deep canyons. It’s beautiful but less... hospitable?”

 

Solas wonders at the truth revealed by the unguarded words. Inhospitable to Dorian, who quite literally at this moment is refusing to hurt a fly. Solas wonders how Tevinter bore a man motivated by gentleness. He can feel Curiosity’s vibration like a hum of agreement with the thought.

 

“He wants you to approve of him,” the spirit murmurs at the edges of his consciousness.

 

Solas smiles. He’d known that and took some pleasure in using it to knock the Tevinter down a peg or two. He hadn’t been sure of the motivation, but it would appear that Doran truly thought of them as brothers-in-arms. Heart of glass, indeed. He smile gets deeper as Dorian continues to attract glowing bugs. Solas is glad they don’t sting, or the mage would be in trouble. “They like you. They tend to be attracted to mages attuned to fire. Hence their name.”

 

This is probably the friendliest they’ve ever been. Solas can feel Dorian sizing him up out of the corner of his eye. “It’s not really veilfire that lights them up?”

 

Curiosity purrs with pleasure at the question, and Solas isn’t sure which one of them he’s chuckling at. He shakes his head. “No, though you aren’t the first to think so.”

 

Dorian’s voice is soft and far away again. “They’re beautiful,” he observes.

 

Solas chides himself for ever thinking this human uninteresting. “There’s much beauty to be found in the forest, if you look.” He’s vaguely aware that he’s echoing some otherwise long forgotten teacher.

 

Dorian hasn’t been tutored in the proper responses, so the conversation lulls. The human seems loath to break the strange truce they’ve found in the magic and beauty of this place. Solas finds his heart softened by that respect. He watches the human go from awkward quietude to wariness in a blink. “Is there something wrong back at camp?”

 

Solas shakes his head. “No, everything is fine. The Inquisitor and the Iron Bull are cooking... something Qunari. They have assured me it will be delicious.”

 

Dorian’s relief is palpable. The spirits beyond the Fade calm momentarily with the force of it. He chuckles. “I’ve eaten Adaar’s cooking before. He’s better than the cooks at Skyhold. I make no promises about Bull, on the other hand.”

 

Solas is charmed by the attempt to put him at his ease. Curiosity’s laughter is closer as she examines his reactions. “You _like_ this human,” she crows.

 

He acknowledges the truth of the statement. It’s not usual for him to appreciate humans. Most of them seemed to prefer ignorance and brutality. He watches as a veil fly lands on Dorian’s nose, and the mage tries to wave it away without injuring it. Solas laughs when he finally huffs in frustration and the fly buzzes off.

 

The mage comes closer, sitting on a root that arches out into the water.  “I’m not trying to run you off,” he starts, conversationally, “but I’m not usually the person you seek out for company. Is there something... I can help you with?”

 

Solas shakes his head. He falls into the mode of teacher again. “The Veil is thin here. I was drawn to the spot just as you were.”

 

The mage appears to take that as a dismissal, standing and carefully climbing the bank, headed for his robes, “I’ll... let you have a moment, then.”

 

Solas feels strangely reluctant to let the misunderstanding stand. “There’s no need for you to leave,” Solas interrupts, looking out over the water. He waits for Dorian to finish dressing. “We’ve had our differences, but the Inquisitor has chosen you to be among his closest companions. He’s a good man. I’m sure he’s capable of mistakes, but I do not believe you are one of them.”

 

Solas tries very hard not to grin as Dorian stands with his hands frozen in the act of straightening his robes, his mouth open. He stares at Solas. He stutters when he does try to speak.

 

Solas is shocked himself when the first intelligible thing the mage says is thanks. Years of verbal sparring with Mythal mean that the response that comes first to his lips is acerbic. “I’ve made you speechless, I see. One of my greater accomplishments.”

 

The mage’s responding laughter makes him feel warm. The peculiarity of the feeling brings Curiosity humming closer, but Solas’s attention is fully on the material plane for once. Dorian comes close enough to be seen in the gloom, and they sit in companionable silence until Bull’s voice rings through the trees.

 

Solas walks with Dorian back to camp. He wonders to himself if there’s a path other than the one he’d set forth on. There is definitely more to consider than he had thought before.

 


	2. Saar-Kost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Iron Bull meets the Herald of Andraste. Weirdness ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all still with me! I'm writing in dribs and drabs, so please bear with me because I love this story and this universe and all of you. Saar-Kost is approximately "Dangerous Peace" in Qunlat.

The Storm Coast was predictably stormy. Adaar was wet and feeling grumpy. But the very handsome and very polite Charger, Cremisius Aclassi, had invited them to meet his commander, the Iron Bull. Adaar was looking forward to seeing him again, at the very least. And the magic here was different than in the hills of Ferelden, somehow. His hand hurt less out here. He flexed it, and his mark glowed green, flickering over the palm. Adaar sighed, clenched his fist hard once, and relaxed, heading toward the beach where they’d arranged to meet.

They could hear that the fighting had already started by the time they reached the spot where the scouts had set up camp. Adaar watched as half a dozen Chargers cut down twenty Venatori. Cassandra made a disgusted noise, thinking they had missed the fighting. She nods to Solas, ignoring Varric as usual, and they all start toward the beach. Just as they arrive, another group of Venatori comes from a cave further down the coast. Adaar ends up shoulder to shoulder with Cremisius, stunning Venatori with lightning so he can run them through. He’s small for a human male but nearly faster than the lightning arcing from Adaar’s fingertips. When they’ve put the group attacking them down, they both turn their eyes to The Iron Bull.

He looks huge, even to Adaar, who is large for a Qunari mage. He’s bigger than Adaar remembers his father being. He hadn’t thought that was possible. Issala had held the world on his shoulders, a giant. Adaar’s horns wouldn’t clear The Iron Bull’s broad shoulders. He wielded a huge, wedge-headed battle axe, swinging it like it weighed less than Adaar’s staff. He spins, flinging the rest of the Venatori across the sand, some in more than one piece. Adaar took in a broad, scarred face with an eyepatch. The fury of battle melts away, and his face transforms as he smiles at Adaar.

Adaar’s heart skips a beat. If he’d known being Inquisitor would put him into contact with so many attractive people, he might have felt less ambivalent about it. _Stop that. You’re supposed to be the Herald of freaking Andraste._ Having authority wasn’t new, but the way people were investing him with religious significance didn’t sit comfortably. He stopped that train of thought. “The Iron Bull, I presume?” Adaar didn’t try to greet him in Qunlat. Tal Vashoth didn’t, as a rule.

The grin crossing the scarred face brightened. Cremisius handed him a rag, and he wiped some blood from his hands and forearms as he answered. “The horns usually give it away,” he replied, sitting on one of the large rocks strewn across the beach. “I assume you remember Cremisius Aclassi, my lieutenant.”

“Nice to see you again,” Cremisius says politely, before turning to Bull. “Throat-cutters are done, Chief.”

Bull looks concerned. “Already? Tell them to check again. I don’t want any of those Tevinter bastards getting away,” he grins slyly, and chuckles. “No offense, Krem.”

Krem grins back, already turning away. “None taken,” he throws Bull a look over his shoulder. “At least a bastard knows who his mother was. Puts him one up on you Qunari, right?”  
Adaar tries hard not to laugh as he saunters away. _Herald. You are the Herald. Act like it._ “Cremisius tells me you don’t usually pick sides. What made you seek out the Inquisition?”

“There’s a hole in the sky?” Bull shrugs. “There’s something else,” he admits when Adaar seems unmoved. “Might be useful, might piss you off. Ever hear of the Ben-Hassrath?”

Bull’s stomach sinks a little bit as he sees Adaar stiffen. “My parents told me about them. They enforce the Qun. Re-educators and spies.”

“Yeah, that’s them. Errr.. uh, us, I mean.” Bull’s usually smoother. Adaar seems pleasant enough, but Bull isn’t sure yet exactly how he’ll wield his power yet. That he stopped to speak to Krem personally speaks well of him, but Bull stands; knows he’s putting his body between the Herald and his men. The re-educators thought it a weakness when his men had been Qunari warriors, but they hadn’t been able to rid him of the impulse. Besides, the Chargers were humans and elves. They were more breakable.

Adaar doesn’t unclench but remains polite. “You’re a Qunari spy, and you just told me?” He woodenly follows Bull’s leisurely stroll down the beach.

Bull shrugs again. “The Ben Hassrath are concerned about the breach.” He shifts subtly, angling his body toward the Herald. “Magic out of control like that is trouble for everyone. I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition, get close to the people in charge, and send reports on what’s happening. But I also get reports from Ben Hassrath agents all over Orlais.” He takes a step closer, trying to shift Adaar’s body language. “You sign me on, I’ll share them with your people.”

Adaar is frozen. He has to stay that way, or he’ll break. He forces himself to nod, but it feels like his skull will shatter.

Bull continues when the Herald nods. “Whatever happened at that conclave thing is bad. Someone needs to get that Breach closed. So whatever I am, I’m on your side.”

Adaar’s eyes fix on Bull’s face, and he knows the look is sharp enough to cut. He has to do what is best for the Inquisition. It feels like being dragged by a horse. He takes a deep breath and lets it out again.“You still could have hidden what you are.”

There’s something there the Herald is hiding. Probably personal. He hasn’t been Herald long enough to be carrying any real Chantry secrets. Bull realizes Adaar’s eyes are sky-colored. There’s a vulnerability in them in spite of his rigid stance. Bull decides to go for the joke. Maybe he can crack this with a smile. He quirks an eyebrow. “From something called the Inquisition?” He chuckles. “I’d have been tipped sooner or later.” He smiles, makes his voice warm. “Better you hear it right up front from me.”

It doesn’t work, and Adaar interrogates him about what the Ben Hassrath want and what Bull plans to tell them for nearly an hour before hiring the Chargers with a curt, “Every report gets read by Leliana. You send nothing she doesn’t approve.”

 _Maybe going with the truth wasn’t the best tactic._ Bull sighs as he watches the Inquisitor head back toward his people.

***  
The chill doesn’t last long. Adaar seeks Bull out, buys him the ale he likes, lets Bull dress him in soldier’s clothes and introduce him to his troops, comes for drinks with the Chargers. The Herald is good, and Bull wonders if he’d have seen the effort involved if their first interaction had gone better. Bull really likes the guy, which is weird because he’s Tal Vashoth. And a mage. Bull watches the man as he runs around Haven, hanging out with Krem by their tents.

Krem laughs at him. “Chief, I know you’re not a mage, but if you stare any harder his robes are gonna catch fire anyway.”

“Arse first,” Dalish smirks, elbowing Krem, who snickers into the back of his hand.

“How did I get stuck with you insubordinate assholes, again?” Bull asks idly.

“You picked us on purpose because you like us that way,” Skinner says, bumping his shoulder with her hip and handing him a tankard of something, hot, spicy and alcoholic. Fereldans really know how to drink. He takes it with a grin, and Skinner twines herself around Dalish with her own drink.

“Suck up,” Krem gripes. “Where’s mine?”

“You have legs, shem,” Skinner says airily, taking a slurping sip.

“Rude,” Krem complains, but there’s no heat in it. He throws a hunk of bread at her, but she just catches it and takes a laughing bite.

The Inquisitor comes from outside the camp and heads toward the smithy pulling a makeshift sled with the carcass of a druffalo on it. Bull knows Tal Vashoth usually hunt for their own food, but taking down a Druffalo can be tricky if they charge you. Which they usually do. He wonders how the mage does it. Krem could, and the Herald is bigger, but he doesn’t wear heavy armor or carry any visible weapon other than his unbladed staff. _More than he seems in a lot of ways. I should be careful._

Krem shifts away from the elves, who are whispering and laughing in a way that tells Bull they’ll be headed into the woods for some privacy in a few ticks. He pretends to poke at the fire. He keeps his voice low when he speaks. “Seriously chief, what are you looking at? Is there some kind of problem? ‘Cause eventually he’s gonna get tired of you staring, and he’s the bloody Herald, so that might not go so well for us.”

Bull pulls himself away from watching Adaar skin the dead druffalo like he was the child of a blacksmith. Not for the first time, Bull wonders about his parents, who left the Qun and didn’t become bandits or murderers. Wonders if maybe he got the wrong idea about Tal Vashoth and has to close his eyes against a rush of memories. He shakes himself and forces himself to look at Krem to answer him. “Just trying to figure our fearless leader out, Krempa. No need to act like a scared old man.”

Krem snorts at him derisively, and Bull lets it make him smile. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to seduce the Herald of Andraste?”

Bull shrugs. “Think you might be more his type. He looked pretty happy to see you there, all rugged and covered in Vint blood, back there on the Coast.”

Krem laughs. “You didn’t see him watching you knock off those last three, swinging your axe halfway across the beach.” He waggles his eyebrows at Bull. “Besides, you’re everyone’s type.”

Bull ruffles his hair affectionately and gets a fond grimace for his trouble. “I’m going to see what I can scrounge up in the woods. Can’t be doing less to feed us than the Herald himself, can I?” He shakes his head when Krem starts to get up. “You stay here. Make sure the Chargers stay out of trouble.” Krem shoots him a look, but he’s a good second. Bull knows he’ll hear about later, more privately. He waves and follows the sled tracks into the woods.

There’s remarkably little blood where the druffalo died, but it’s there. Wasn’t the Herald’s lightning that killed it, then. He must have a blade somewhere in those robes. Bull gathers some Elfroot for Stitches, tying it up in a scrap of cloth to hang from his belt. The druffalo are still skittish, so variety’s sake he takes two rams. He slings them over his shoulders to carry them back to camp. Grim skins them and takes the skins to the blacksmith for tanning. Bull leaves one with Skinner, who butchers it and shares it with the Chargers and the soldiers outside the gate, and Bull takes the other inside the gate to the camp there. The dwarf that had been with the Herald on the beach is there. He grins up at Bull, waving him to the fire. “Hey, Tiny. I was wondering when you’d come around.”

Bull laughs. “Tiny, eh? I like it.”

The dwarf grins wider. “Habit. I’m Varric Tethras. Author, businessman, rogue, former prisoner of the Inquisition and unwelcome tagalong.”

“Prisoner?” Bull asks.

Varric waves him off. “It’s a long story but if you ever want to hear Cassandra rant, ask her.” He kicks a stump in Bulls direction and sits on another one, pulling a bottle of wine from nowhere and offering it to Bull. Bull doesn’t really drink wine, but it’s alcohol, and it’s free, and the wind is bitterly cold. He takes a swig right from the bottle. It’s not bad, and he smiles in thanks.

If the dwarf is repulsed by his lack of manners it doesn’t show. “So I hear you’re Ben Hassrath. Qunari spies. What brings you all the way out here?”

“Even Ben Hassrath worry when they sky splits open and starts shitting out demons,” Bull chuckles. “Is that really a surprise?”

Varric laughs with him. “I guess not, Tiny. I guess not.”

“You said you were an author?” Bull turns the conversation back toward getting to know the people he’s studying.

Varric nods. “Pulp stuff, mostly. Swashbuckling and mystery. Though I did write the Chronicle of the Champion.” He laughs. “Which is how I became a prisoner, to round out my resume. Cassandra really wanted to find Hawke.”

“Wait, you’re _that_ guy?” Bull’s interest is piqued. “Heard about you in Seheron.”

Varric shakes his head. “My editor is really screwing me.” Before Bull can ask what that means, he continues, “Yeah. I’m that dwarf. I must be crazy sticking around for this, but I guess saving the world gets to be a habit.” He shrugs, but Bull can see pain there, though the dwarf is good at hiding it. He misses his friend.

“So how do you find working for the Herald?” Bull asks. In part because he’s curious, and in part because maybe how his friends understand him will help Bull understand.

Varric either doesn’t know or isn’t going to tell. He shakes his head. “He’s a good guy, but kinda closed off. Can’t really blame him, though. Cassandra makes enemies more easily than friends. She’s not bad, for a human, though. She won’t lie to you.”

Bull smiles and takes another swig of wine. “Good to know. What about you? You’re not a prisoner anymore.” He tilts his head toward the gate. “Could be somewhere warmer.”

Varric laughs. “Wait until summer. Lava in the deep roads isn’t as hot.”

Bull smiles and they drink. Varric knows something about everyone, and Bull is content to listen.

***

Krem kicks him out of their tent when he gets back. “You smell like a brewery. Bathe.”  
It’s late, and Bull would resist, but Krem has always been stubborn, and it would probably take more effort to fight than to just bathe. He goes to the barrels behind the healer’s hut, thinking he’ll just have a quick wash. Actual bathing facilities aren’t plentiful in Haven, and the lake is frozen over. He’s too tired to take an axe to it. He’s not expecting to find the Inquisitor there.

“They don’t have better facilities for the Herald of Andraste?” Bull blurts before his brain engages.

Luckily, the Herald in question has a sense of humor. He just laughs. “They might, but if I let them put me on a pedestal, they will, and then I’ll be trapped here while the rest of you have all the fun.” The glow from his hand flares and he hisses, thrusting it into the snow like it burns. “Plus, I can’t have people knowing how much this still hurts.” He says something Bull doesn’t quite catch but understands from the tone as swearing.

Bull takes the Inquisitor’s arm and rubs a handful of snow into the palm, gently but thoroughly, numbing it like he would if he could stitch the wound. He smiles a little when Adaar makes a sound, like relief mixed with pain. It makes Bull’s cock twitch, but he ignores it. “The healer giving you anything for it?”

Adaar fixes him with a look. Bull doesn’t really understand it, but he feels rooted in place. “The healer doesn’t know. Right now, it’s just you, and Solas. And you only know because I wasn’t careful enough.”

Bull tries to reassure him. “No one will hear it from me. Promise, Boss.”

Adaar smiles up at him, and Bull’s heart clenches. He shakes his head. He’d been considering offering sex as a distraction, but the re-educators hadn’t managed to make him stop having inappropriate feelings, so he was going to have to find another way. He pulls a flask of Antivan brandy he mostly keeps to help him sleep and offers it to the Herald. “It helps me sleep. Might work for you, too.”

It’s a testament to how strong Adaar is that the smile doesn’t drop. His eyes crinkle a little differently; a fragility transmitted unconsciously to his expression. He takes a drink and hands it back. “Thank you. I think I’ll try to do that now.”

Bull watches him go. His heart beats, and he breathes, pushing all the things he shouldn’t feel to the edges of his skin. He washes mechanically and heads back to the tent. There’s still brandy in the flask, but he’s had enough tonight. He lies in his bedroll and stares at the tent above him.

He doesn’t sleep.

_Vashedan._


End file.
